


Hawkeye's day out.

by Bigredtbc



Series: Six-Nine-Two [3]
Category: Hawkeye - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, Mentions of underage drinking, Mission Centered, Smut, Super Soldier Clint, gratuitous references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bigredtbc/pseuds/Bigredtbc
Summary: Hawkeye works with Coulson but sometimes he gets loaned. Two years since joining SHIELD and Clint is ordered to report to STRIKE and Rumlow. What's a Frankenstein's creation to do?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short little number to introduce more of 692Clint and the world I have in my head, at 12K it's still not finished so I decided to post the first half.  
> As we all know MCU and related characters belong to their respective creators, a couple of OC's I thought up. For Spoilers and warnings, check out the notes at the end.  
> Thanks to anyone who gave me kudos, commented or subscribed. Bigger thanks to my mom. (And by this I mean the womb of evil that gave me life, she's as much a fanfic whore as I am) who has bated this.  
> Taz

The halls of every SHIELD base were the same, as were the rooms, the designers fallowing the same generic theme for each base and building that officially belonged to SHIELD, it was both reassuring and bland. After two years of the same, Clint was beginning to think of SHIELD as home, mostly down to the efforts of his handler. Out of everyone, Clint trusted Phil the most.  
He had gone through more than his fare share of handlers since accepting Phil’s offer, labelled as a mouthy, insubordinate, trouble maker who had issues with following orders. Truth was, he’d had enough of blindly following orders all through his childhood. He wasn't a mindless automaton anymore, hadn't been in almost a decade and he wasn't going to let anyone or anything turn him back into that boy again. If some of the people he had to work with didn't like it, it was they're own problem, Clint always came through, one way or another.  
Still there were times that his talents were needed elsewhere, times that since becoming his full time handler, Phil hadn't been there. The man was Fury’s most trusted ally, the directors joint second in command and sometimes that meant that Clint had to play nice with others. 

Brock Rumlow was a man Clint had heard about in his time with SHIELD, the youngest STRIKE commander they had and by all accounts, the current fore runner. He was the commanding officer of STRIKE team Alpha, an ex Navy Seal operator that had been head hunted by SHIELD five years prior. His file made for an interesting read, with eight successful missions under his belt already in seven months as Alpha’s commander. He was also to be Clint’s temporary C/O.  
The orders had come down that morning, Clint had barely had time to switch out his gear after debriefing with Coulson and Hill before he was shipped off to join STRIKE team Alpha at a field base in Virginia, filling in for the teams designated sharpshooter who was out on injury. 

Reporting to the situation room STRIKE team Alpha were using, Clint ran his eyes over the three men and one woman already mid briefing, falling into parade rest as he waited for Rumlow to acknowledge his presence in the room. All four members of Alpha were the more rough and ready sort, the lacked the shiny patina some of the more polished SHIELD operators had and Clint found himself relaxing just a fraction.  
Members of SHIELD fell into two categories, the polished and the rough. The polished agents were men and women who had done everything the right way, going through collage and the armed forces before applying to the agency as the next step. The rougher agents tended to be the ones recruited for what they could do. Not everyone fit the mould, especially with the sort of agency SHIELD was, Phil was a notable exception to the categories, the man preferring his tailored suits and bland affectations that lead most people to underestimate the man as less than what he was. The reality was that Agent Phil Coulson was just as bad assed as any of the elite field agents, he just hid it better, at least until the time came to escape a terrorist’s imprisonment before the interrogation could become deadly. Clint was admittedly biased when it came to his handler though, the man had managed to shoot him and get him to join SHIELD, that had earned Clint's respect.  
Back to Alpha team and Clint was taking every detail he could, from the laid back attitude of the agents sat before Rumlow and Rumlow himself, to the utmost respect they had for him. The team might not stand on ceremony like many teams enforced, but that didn't lessen the respect the agents had for their commander. 

“You gonna’ take a goddamn seat or what?” Rumlow finally turned from his presentation to pin Clint with an unimpressed look. 

“Don't mind if I do.” Shaking the military baring from his shoulders, Clint moved to the table, snagging the file Agent Kikiri flicked at him.

“What's with the kid?” Rollins demanded, eyeing Clint.

Clint ignored him, more than used to it after the last two years. It usually ended up working in his favour when they underestimated him at first glance. Instead, he flicked the file open and scanned the contents, his Frankenstein brain taking in the information at lightning speed and committing it to memory. 

“He's filling in for Tomkins, apparently has the best scores they've ever seen.” Rumlow stated, remaining at his spot by the main screen. “He's Coulson's puppy.” He added dryly. 

Manuel eyed Clint sharply, eyebrows climbing into his hairline with disbelief as Clint finished his read through and tossed the file onto the desk. 

“This is Hawkeye?” He demanded.

“One and only.” Clint smirked, slouching in his chair as he crossed his arms.

Drawing attention to himself used to make him break out in a cold sweat, deviating from what had been drilled into him as a child, but he'd learned to hide in plain sight. People focused on what he put in front of them and the more they looked at what he made them look at, the less they could see what he hid. Old espionage lessons becoming second nature. He had them more focused on who he was, they couldn't tell what he was. 

“Don't get cocky kid.” Rumlow glared, a note of warning in his tone. “We have a nuclear weapon to secure.” He added, trying to impart the gravity of the situation.

“And we have less than seventy five hours to secure it, Corbin reported that the deal was going down Wednesday morning. The best place to hit them will be at Mertollies’ compound, before they get it on the road – since it's not exactly stable- and I doubt Mertollies will risk having an active nuke in the open before pay-day. With the sheer amount of security the guy has, he's gonna notice if we roll up, so I'm betting your planning a drop and given his military connections, we're gonna have to do it from fifty thousand feet and avoid radar on the way down, given most aircraft cannot exceed fifty thousand feet and even military don't jump above thirty thousand.” Clint waved at the file he had tossed down, keeping his tone even. 

Eyes widened and eyebrows hiked, expressions of shock and surprise being sent his way. It was something he was used to, the first time he worked with anyone, they underestimated him but given the delicacy of the mission, he couldn't really afford to be letting them continue with it. He might be immune to radiation but he doubted even he could survive being at ground zero of a nuclear blast. 

“That was the idea.” Rumlow agreed after a moment, before looking back to the screen. “We’ll be taking a jet from the base in Scotland, we’re wheels up at sixteen hundred hours, Corbin and Lancaster will be our boots on the ground, they're prepping our extraction as we speak.” Rumlow explained. “Barton, you’ll be taking the high tower, you'll be our sniper. Kikiri, you'll take the south-east quadrant, Manuel, you have the south-west, Rollins, you have the North-east and I'll have the north-west, the south entrance leads to what thermal scans determine as a kitchen, Kikiri, Manuel, you'll both gain entry from here. I’ll take the northern side with Rollins.” Rumlow laid out their assault plan. 

Clint listened intently, the plan was solid. With the drop, it gave them the element of surprise and the other four certainly had the skills to pull it off. It had its risks, and if it were a team like Charlie or Echo he would have bailed but this was STRIKE team Alpha, and Clint highly doubted someone as experienced and smart as Rumlow would plan an assault like this if he wasn't convinced his team could pull it off. Not to mention the pretty solid back ups and contingencies the commander laid out. 

“Be on the jet at sixteen hundred.” Rumlow finally dismissed them.

Clint rose from his seat, pausing at Rumlow’s order for him to remain behind and dropping back into his seat. As the other team members filed out of the room, Clint gave Rumlow his full attention, taking a moment to admire the man in front of him. He was after all a healthy, eighteen year old, Frankenstein creation without all the gender hang ups other males his age seemed to have. He wasn't sure if that was a product of whatever had been shoved into his genetic cocktail before birth –when he was still just cells in a test tube- but he was leaning towards a probable likelihood. Despite the military's abhorrence of anything that didn't fit the mould, they had to have seen the benefit in keeping their assets unrestricted by things like sexuality, especially given the fact they had been built for a multitude of roles.  
By all accounts he and his pseudo-siblings had been created not just as one-person armies but to be an entire interchangeable combat force. His series of spliced together soldiers had been made as an officer class, able to handle not just the physical aspects of battle but command, intelligence, assassinations and all the in betweens. They were made to be the best no matter what the situation called for. Point in case, Clint figured what ever nut-jobs thought them into existence understood they couldn't have their very expensive soldiers freaking out on an espionage assignment or an assassination because of a little thing like gender. Ever since he had begun to notice things like attractiveness and sexuality, he had realised he didn't choose based on the norms. It had been one point of contention between himself and Barney. Besides, how could Clint get so hung up on a little thing like gender when he wasn't even human and humans were his only real option for any kind of relationship. The closest term he could equate it to being would be omnisexual. 

 

Rumlow cleared his throat and Clint dragged his eyes up from their leisurely perusal of the commanders rather defined torso, completely unrepentant. If Rumlow wanted to get all bent out of shape by the fact Clint wasn't as straight as one of his arrows that was fine, Clint could kick his ass if he had too. Although judging by the amused tilt to Rumlow's lips, he might not be adverse to Clint’s appreciation. Seeing he had Clint’s full attention, the amusement fell away to seriousness.

“Can you pull this off?” Rumlow asked, solid and serious. 

This Clint could understand and he gave it the serious attention it warranted. This wasn't Rumlow doubting him, it was Rumlow as a commander needing to know every member of his team could perform as advertised. Given the seriousness of the mission and the skill set required it was a valid question, especially because Clint had never worked with the man or his team before. While Clint’s file laid out his skills for every commander and handler to see, it was one thing to be qualified on paper and a completely different animal to be able to perform in a high stress environment whilst potentially under fire and certainly going into hostile territory.  
He might be cocky but Clint understood more than Rumlow knew just how dangerous the situation could be if he was over playing his abilities. Nothing could jeopardise not just the outcome of a mission but the lives of the men and women involved more than someone grand standing and over playing their abilities. Being cocky when you could put your money where your mouth was was one thing, doing it when you were trying to impress just got people killed. 

“I can.” He gave a single sharp nod, no trace of cockiness in his tone. 

Rumlow kept his eyes on Clint’s for another long moment before nodding in return, accepting Clint’s response. No doubt the commander would keep an eye on him, he was an unknown to the team but he would allow Clint on the mission. 

“Let's hope your as good as they say you are.” Rumlow shifted, loosing some of the hardness out of his posture. Clint cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m better.” Clint shrugged, it was a simple statement of truth as he rose to his feet. 

“Sixteen hundred, don't be late.” Rumlow ordered.

“Yes sir.” Tossing off a sloppy salute, Clint turned on his heal and left the room to check his gear.

 

>>>\---------->

 

The flight over the Atlantic was filled with everyone doing checks on their gear, going over the specs they had and any new scans that had come in, memorising contingencies and extraction points, rechecking weapons and ammunition. Quiet conversations passed between the four teammates, leaving Clint to his favourite past time of people watching under the guise of taking a nap.  
Even after almost a decade of freedom, he took comfort in watching other people. What had started out as an exorcise in learning human behaviours to better fit in had become something of a comfort. He still enjoyed sitting in a nest or even a park bench and watching the interactions of people who had no idea they were being observed. It didn't just help him blend in with them, it made him better at his job. Understanding how people interacted in different situations was half of what made him so good at espionage. It made disappearing easier too, becoming one of the masses in a crowd, moving like a ghost undetected. It also helped him to rest, something he didn't do easily, not unless he was either somewhere he felt safe or he was bone tired. Hell it had taken him months before he could sleep in his room at HQ rather than in the vents. Besides, jets weren't all that conductive to sleep, what with all the noise, he'd even had trouble with the new Quin-jets they were bringing into service, one of the quietest jets they had, and the hyper sonics still made Clint's teeth itch. 

He let the quiet conversations roll over him, lulled into a pseudo-doze as Kikiri told Rollins about her nephews latest escapades while Rumlow and Manuel debated the pros and cons of the latest armour piercing rounds SHIELD’s R&D department had come up with. It was familiar in a way that reminded him of himself and Coulson. He and his handler had spent more than one long flight shooting the breeze on their way too or from a mission, something Clint appreciated. Phil was the closest thing to a best friend Clint had ever had, he trusted the older man, more than he had ever trusted anyone else. Phil was the only person Clint had ever considered confiding in, he hadn't brought himself to actually do it, nor did he think he ever would but if there was anyone he would ever tell, it would be Phil. If there was only one single person in the whole universe that would be able to roll with it, Clint knew it would be Phil, the man was an ocean of calm wrapped in a well tailored suit. It really wasn't a wonder the junior agents thought he was some sort of robot, Clint knew otherwise, after two years he had seen his handler in so many situations he could verify the man was indeed a living breathing human being. 

He shook off his musings as the jet began its decent to the Scotland airbase, doing a visual check of his gear. Before long, they would be in the air over the target site, in the early pre-dawn hours, hopefully most of the compound would be in bed asleep, meaning less bodies on the ground as they infiltrated. It wasn't certain, but here was a reason behind early morning strikes, in the earlier hours people tended to be more tired, sluggish and less aware. Between ohh-three-hundred and ohh-five-hundred was the best time, when the untrained bodies flagged and people were physiologically more tired and run down. 

The layover in Scotland lasted mere minutes, only long enough for the team to disembark the jet and board the smaller Quin-jet waiting to take them to Europe. Quin-Jets were not only quieter but faster, one of the fastest transports available, not quite able to do supersonic yet, no doubt the engineers were already working on getting the sleek little jets to hit Mach speed with a full load. 

Rumlow waited just long enough for them to be over the North Sea and heading towards Germany before bringing up the latest images, satellite, thermal and infra-red imaging showed that while some of the numbers inside the compound had dropped some, it wasn't by much, meaning Mertollies had a twenty four-seven force stationed inside his compound.  
Clint listened intently as Rumlow went over the plans and contingencies a last time before they all rechecked their gear, making sure their parachutes and back up chutes where still intact and serviceable.  
It sounded simple at first, dropping into a target zone, the reality was a lot more complicated. Not only for the fact that they had to land precisely with little room for error, there was also the altitude they were dropping from, which meant they had to have breathing gear. Clint could probably survive without it, but he didn't want to test it, getting frostbite in his lungs from breathing frozen air wasn't on his bucket-list. Sure he could hold his breath for almost eight minutes, and sure he had beyond excellent breath control and lung capacity, but he really didn't want to risk it. On top of all that, they had to avoid radar detection and visual detection. The second would be easier, weather predictions and real-time data had a decent cloud cover heading for the area, not to mention the waning moon meaning less light, when coupled with the fact people generally didn't look straight up and they should be able to avoid visual detection. Avoiding radar detection would be harder, even with the state of the art stealth tech built into the jump suits, they would have to keep tight formation to avoid becoming a big enough blip to register on instruments, not to mention waiting until they dipped under the radar floor to deploy their chutes. There were too many variables for this to be anything near simple, it wasn't just a test of physical endurance, but experience, training, skill and natural ability, with a little advanced math on top. It was the kind of thing Clint loved about his job.

The closer they got to the drop zone, the calmer he became and the calmer he was, the more relaxed he became. Missions like these where why he came to SHIELD, the chance to use his designer genome and Frankenstein body for what it was made for, in a way that he chose.  
With SHIELD he had the option to decline a mission if he didn't like what they wanted him to do, they could try and persuade him to do it –verbally at least- but if he said no, there was nothing they could do about it other than maybe find someone else who was willing. Truthfully he hadn't had to exorcize that right yet, but he knew without a doubt that Phil would have his back should there ever be a time it came. 

 

By the time he was stepping off the jets ramp, he was almost serene. The same head space he got when drawing his bow and lining a shot. It was a heady feeling, making him feel almost invincible. His feet left the ramp, his whole body – gear included- feeling weightless for a long moment, then gravity kicked in and he was in free fall.  
Wind roared passed his ears, deafening him for the fall, even the com in his ear went unheard under the sheer noise of the wind. Through the suit, with all its fancy bells and whistles, he could still feel the bite of icy wind like needles piercing through the weave of his Tac suit. His eyes had the most protection, the stream lined goggles protecting what everyone thought as his most valuable asset. 

He re-oriented himself as a particularly nasty crosswind threatened to blow him too far out of formation, closing back in on Manuel and Kikiri, the fancy piece of tech on his left forearm glowed dully, with just enough back light for him to watch the altitude counter cycle down at speed, underneath the words “terminal velocity” flashed in a dull red. On the right side of the screens vertical divider, the map – a high tech affair with realtime satellite uplink and GPS accurate to with in six inches- showed the cluster of their blue blips closing in on the red blip that marked Mertollies compound. 

 

At twenty thousand feet, he wrestled the crossbow off his back. It wasn't his favourite weapon on the least, it was more a gun than a crossbow, the bolts fired pneumatically rather than being propelled forward by a string under tension, but the Steampunk-esq weapon had a rapid fire system, was virtually silent to human ears and was drum loaded with each drum carrying around forty five bolts. It was the bastardised brain chilled of one of the R&D geeks who had obviously spent too much time playing RPG’s but for what he needed to do on the drop in, it was the best weapon for the job, especially seeing as his beloved bow was resting over his tac-suit, which was under the para-suit and parachute.  
At fifteen thousand feet, he had the crossbow attached to the clip on his right shoulder, securing it so in the event pulling his chute jarred him too much he lost his grip, he wouldn't loose his weapon. At a glance, he could see the others -others who had automatic rifles they hadn't had to strap to their back for most of the jump, because for some strange reason the pneumatic crossbow weighed almost three times what the SHIELD issued assault rifles weighed, (Stark weapons were a thing of beauty, and the L-22 Master Shot assault rifle they supplied SHIELD with was the best of its kind.) and had to be strapped to his lower back so as not to completely screw up his decent- already glancing down the sights of their weapons as they waited for the first sight of the compound to appear below.  
At ten thousand feet, Clint could just make out the blurry shapes of the compound between breaks in the cloud cover, mostly down to the lights spilling from the compound. 

 

By the time the indicator on his left wrist flashed to show he’d dropped under the radar floor, he could just about make out figures patrolling the compound. He already had confirmation he could fire on targets should he have a clear shot. The sudden snap of his chute deploying took his breath away as the straps dug in, slowing his rate of decent, the crossbow jostling against his ribs. Below him, Kikiri and Manuel’s chutes seemed to dance as the pair spiralled their way down to the compound, aiming for their own target quadrants. Clint kept to his own corse, aiming for the large opulent building in the centre of the compound and the tower like protrusion on the roof that would give look outs sight lines for miles above the compounds walls. Lower and lower he dropped, and then it was time to engage. 

 

>>>\---------->

The initial few minutes of engagement where crazy, no matter how prepared, no matter how organised, the first few minutes of any engagement were always chaotic as they scrambled to take advantage of the element of surprise while carrying out their assigned tasks.  
He’d landed as silently as he could, his chute flapping away untethered from where he’d released the straps, the crossbow dug into his stomach as he rolled to loose some of his momentum, his hands on the grips, already bringing it up as he came up on the balls of his feet.  
The two bolts he loosed left the crossbow with the softest puffs of high pressured air, the sound eclipsed by the gentle tinkle of broken glass as the bolts flew true, sailing into the tower and into their targets. He’d already taken three men out on the decent, lookouts posted on the walls where they hadn't been seen falling. Tangos down, he kept low as he ran for the tower, already tugging at the para-suit. It was only his engineered hearing that let him hear the soft pops and his teammates opened fire in their assigned quadrants. Sixteen seconds after landing, he was slipping his bow over his shoulders and popping the protective cap off his quiver.  
Behind him the rooftop tower was lit up like beacon at his back, illuminating the darkness like a lighthouse. In his peripheral he could see Rollins shedding his own suit, ducked down behind a shrub on the immaculate lawn of the compound, unaware of the Tango above him on the wall. An arrow to the left eye dropped the Tango back over wall to land presumably out side of the compounds high walls. Clint continued to scan, taking out Tangos as they appeared.  
The soft pops of the silenced assault rifles let him know another three Tangos had been taken down, even as he cut the numbers by another five, eyes roving for anyone waiting to ambush a member of his teem. 

He took a moment to check for any access point to the inside of the tower, sliding one of he windows open and crawling inside. Two corpses were dropped on top of the hatch leading into the building, crossbow bolts protruding from their heads. The tower wasn't big, just enough room for two men to comfortably stand watch, so he was forced to nudge the corpses to one side. The last thing he needed was to get a foot tangled in a knot of dead bodies when trying to get out of the tower.  
The com in his ear clicked as the rest of the team began their entry into the building, and the seconds continued to tick away. Clint kept his mind on the task at hand. He was the eyes up high, it was his job to take out any reinforcements that might try to get to the building, take out any Tango’s that fled the building incase they were trying to escape with the Nuke, and of corse take out any Tango’s in the compounds grounds that they may have missed in the initial insertion.  
In reality, it meant killing a lot of people before leaving his team to do all the footwork while he kept look out. Sometimes that lack of activity, the having to wait for others to do the rest of the job, rankled, but it was all apart of working with a team. He may not like having to wait for others to do the job but while they may not have done it as quickly as he could, they were still more than capable. 

The first un-silenced shots rang out four and a half minutes after their boots had hit the ground, which considered they had been expecting twice the number to be waiting in the grounds, was a bonus. The un-silenced shots heralded the onset of madness.  
Even from his new nest, Clint could hear the shouts and screams as easily as if he were inside the building its self. Guard dogs began barking somewhere in the grounds and Clint watched as the pool house lit up, lights flicking on as sleeping men were woken.  
An explosive arrow took care of the pool house, now that they had lost the element of surprise, he didn't think the noise was going to alert anyone else.  
The pool house erupted in a fireball, wood and bricks thrown with enough force to cause damage to the surrounding wall and ground, the light of the explosion lighting up the entire compound for a brief moment, leaving the after effects swimming in his vision for three long heart beats. Over the comms, Rumlow demanded a report, voice tense as he demanded to know what the explosion was from. The swearing that came back when Clint replied was enough to make the teenager smirk. 

It was a relief when Rollins confirmed they had the nuke, the mission clock had hit the thirty minutes since engagement mark and Clint hadn't seen anymore back up than the currently smoking corpses in the pool house. He wasn't going to tempt fate by thinking anything, let alone speaking anything that might bring a jinx to the mission, instead, he waited for the confirmation that the team was coming out before abandoning his nest, pausing only long enough to to scoop up his abandoned crossbow on his way to the ground. 

Securing the gate and ensuring they could get out of the compound took next to no time at all and when Clint lit the green flare from his pocket, he was rewarded by the chirp of the Coms that let him know their extraction had seen the signal and were on route to the compound. No one wanted to get caught out on foot with a temperamental nuclear weapon. 

 

>>>\---------->

The drive out to the nearest airbase took hours, the plain transit van Corbin had procured bouncing along. The nuke, small enough it fit inside a brief case, sat in the back. Clint wasn't the only one who flinched every time they hit a particular hard pothole. The whole drive was spent in tense suspense, waiting for either bad guys to show up and start shooting, or the nuke to blow. It didn't matter the firing mechanism wasn't actually attached, they were sat on a nuke, it was enough to to make anyone tense.

By the time they handed it over to the SHIELD team waiting at the airbase, Kikiri looked ready to punch Rollins and Rumlow himself looked like he was contemplating shooting his whole team. It was a relief to board the jet back home, the nuke officially handed off and no longer their concern.  
It wasn't until they were strapped in and back in the air that Clint began to relax, loosing some of the tense battle readiness that had kept him on high alert since he had been given the orders to report to Rumlow.  
With how relatively easy the mission had been, it was strange how wore down Clint felt. The whole mission had gone like clockwork, which should have been near on impossible. Recovering a temperamental Nuke was not supposed to be essentially a milk run. It wasn't until they had cleared Europe and were over the ocean that it occurred to Clint. The reason the mission had gone so well was because not only had he been able to trust his teammates to do their jobs, they had trusted him to do his.  
Out of all the teams Clint had worked with in the last two years with SHIELD, and even before that, his apparent youth had always caused conflict with whoever he was stuck working with. Weather it was handlers who didn't believe he was worth the time or effort, to team mates who thought he had got to SHIELD via black mail or something. Other than Phil, Rumlow and STRIKE team Alpha were the only people he had worked with in SHIELD that had treated him like what he was. A Specialist.  
The difference between a agent and a Specialist in SHIELD was immense. A Specialist was an agent who was an acknowledged expert. A Specialist was given the dues earned by being the best of the best. There was an unwritten law in SHIELD, one that Clint had been excluded from by damn near everyone. Specialists were the unacknowledged top of the food chain. Hell, Agent Dillard was damn near treated like a rockstar and all he did was blow shit up. Then again, Dillard could make an explosion into a work of art but that was why the ex SAS officer was a Specialist.  
The trust and respect that he'd been given by Phil and now Rumlow and the rest of Alpha far surpassed what he had been given by anyone else in the organisation. He had given them the same curtsey that they had given him and because of that, the mission had run smoothly. 

Rumlow clearing his throat got Clint’s attention and he turned in his seat to look at his temporary CO.

“Good work out there kid.” Rumlow nodded, elbows braced on his knees. 

It wasn't flashy but the EX SEAL meant it and from the looks on the rest of the teams faces, they agreed with their CO. 

“Thanks for letting me do my job.” Clint accepted it, offering his own olive branch. His lip curled as an after thought. “And drop the kid thing, yeah?” 

“Jesus, you are a kid!” Rollins snorted, digging around his pack and withdrawing a hip flask. “How old are you anyway?” He asked dubiously. 

“Not old enough for that.” Rumlow nodded to the hip flask. 

“Hey, Coulson says if I'm old enough to kill people for a living, I'm old enough to drink if I want to.” Clint rolled his eyes. 

Technically it wasn't a lie but it wasn't true either. Phil had mixed feelings about Clint killing people at his age but since he’d started a lot younger and would still be killing people for a living if he didn't work for SHIELD, he relented. When it came to drinking however, Phil was pretty unmovable, despite the evidence that Clint could hold his liquor. Phil had him on a one bear limit when they went out for the SHEILD traditional post mission drink. 

“Yeah, I ain't having Agent Coulson hunting me down because I let his puppy drink.” Rumlow shook his head. 

“What's this puppy shit?” Clint demanded. 

It wasn't the first time he had heard the moniker in reference to him but usually it was when he was over hearing parts of a conversation. He could hazard a guess but still, he was no ones damned dog. Rumlow cocked his head.

“You followed him home.” Rumlow shrugged. Clint couldn't help the snort. 

“You do know he was under orders to take me out right? I didn't follow him home, I chose to come in when he shot me.” Clint crossed his arms. 

The silence that statement brought was telling, just as much as the stunned looks on all of their faces. Strangely for a bunch of spies, most of them were useless at finding out the truth in their own house. While Clint may not have bothered to ferret out the origins of his ‘nickname’ there was plenty of other, more useful things he had learned. Usually by haunting the air vents. He over heard more than one conversation that way. The duct above the brake room on level six was a particular gold mine, that one was above the break room the senior handlers liked to gossip in and some of the level sixes gossiped worse than high school girls. 

“I thought that was just a joke?” Manuel asked quietly, eyes wide in surprise. 

“Nah, Coulson interrupted my hit in Mogadishu, he was under orders to take me down or take me out but he made me an offer instead.” Clint explained blandly. “I think he only offered because of how old I was. I think Fury wanted to flatten him.” Clint shrugged. 

“But you can't be more than what, nineteen, twenty?” Kikiri asked faintly.

“I'm eighteen.” Clint rolled his eyes. 

“So you weren't an Olympic hopeful Coulson poached?” Manuel asked in shock. Clint let out a sarcastic noise.

“Please, I've got more confirmed hits than Anderson.” 

It was true too, Anderson was the current leading sniper in SHIELD and the only reason Clint hadn't taken the crown yet was because he did other missions besides just hits. Anderson was currently only in the lead because all the man ever did was sanctioned hits with a sniper, even so, Clint still had more confirmed kills in almost eight years than Anderson had in two decades. It wasn't bragging when it was true. 

“Jesus Christ kid, your something else.” Rollins shook his head but surprisingly offered Clint his hip flask. He waved off Rumlow’s warning look. “Boss, eighteen or not, a man hits numbers like that, he's earned his big boy pants.” Rollins shook his head. Rumlow relented after a moment, conceding defeat.

“Just don’t let Coulson know.” Rumlow ordered gruffly. 

“I’m cocky, not stupid.” Clint smirked, taking a deep swig from the battered flask before handing it back. 

Whatever Rollins favoured in his hip flask tasted like battery acid, going down with was was probably a similar burn. Considering everything Clint had had to swallow in is life, it wasn't the worse by far.  
“Man, that reminds me of the moonshine the bearded lady used to make.” Clint cocked an eyebrow at Rollins’ disappointed face, keeping his tone fond.

It did the trick, Kikiri lost the weary look she’d been giving him as she broke into peals of laughter, Manuel snorting and kicking Rollins’ ankle. 

“Not bad kid, you should come with us after debrief.” Rollins relented, looking sideways at Rumlow who nodded his agreement.

Clint nodded, relaxing back in his seat. He would be lying if he said he wasn't a little amazed. Out of all the other teams he had worked with, this one was the first to invite him out afterwards, in fact Phil was the only other person he had worked with that had invited him to do anything not related to the mission.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section of this chapter has some some sort of important bits, mostly about how Clint thinks and sees things. After that it's pretty much gratuitous CrossHawk smut, so I hope you enjoy.

In all honesty as cocky as Clint was he didn't have a lot of friends. Truthfully, he had two, counting Barney. Phil of corse was the other, so while Rollins had invited him to join STRIKE team Alpha, he wasn’t sure if it still stood. Having Rumlow pull him aside after the debrief to tell him to meet the team in an hour in the garage was a pleasant surprise and an opportunity Clint wasn't going to waste. He didn't have very many allies at SHIELD either, even after two years.  
  
While it was true, he came off as cocky, not afraid to speak his mind, he was still private. He still had issues with letting people close, trusting people. At the same time, as much as Clint trusted and relied on Phil -counting the man not just as a friend but possibly the closest thing to family he had- Phil was more like a big brother or father figure. A chance to make some friends sounded like a good idea, making friends with STRIKE team Alpha sounded even better. At the very least, Clint figured Rumlow might at the very least pull him for missions in the future. 

Fifty five minutes later, dressed in his favourite civvies, Clint strolled into the facilities underground parking garage, finding STRIKE team Alpha waiting for him. He let himself be ushered into the SUV, ending up between Rollins and Manuel on the back seat.

“Coulson give you a curfew?” Rumlow twisted in the passenger seat, smirking at Clint who rolled his eyes.

“Cute.” He drawled. “You do know I could probably kick all of your asses without breaking a sweat right.” He shot back, next to him Rollins cackled and jostled him with an elbow.

“Don't write checks you can't cash kid.” Kikiri chuckled as she drove them into the city. “You might be the shit with your little bow and arrows but we've been at this years.” She warned.

“Any time, any place.” Clint offered cockily. After all, these were experienced SHIELD operatives and in SHIELD, everything was a contest.

“Scores are one thing kid but when it comes down to a real hand to hand fight…” Rumlow began, Clint couldn't help himself as he rolled his eyes again. 

“Been there done that.” Clint stated bluntly. “ I keep telling you, I’ve been doing this shit for years.” He pointed out. 

“He is a baby bad ass that's for sure.” Manuel teased. 

“Keep it up grandpa and you'll wake up to find yourself upside down and naked in he cafeteria.” Clint warned.

The car was filled with their combined laughter but Clint really didn't mind, it wasn't malicious, unlike the hazing could be in the circus, this was teasing. Besides, there was a reason his probationary class left him alone - If they couldn't get handle a little pay back they didn't deserve to be in SHIELD.

The bar they took him too was a sports bar not too far from base, on the edge of the city. Judging by the warm reception from the bar staff, the team were regulars. Clint let them steer him to a booth at the back of the bar with good sight lines of the whole place. More than that, the guy behind the bar didn't so much as give him a second glance. He did have his fake ID on him but still, it was annoying to get carded every time he went anywhere.  
He ended up sandwiched between Rumlow and Kikiri while Rollins went for the first round but it wasn't uncomfortable. They might have been teasing him for the whole ride over but as much as they teased, it wasn't disrespectful and he found himself relaxing into the booth, scanning he room. 

“So, Kid…” Kikiri eyed him sideways as she took her beer from Rollins. “I heard you got three of your class to quit.” She stated, one eyebrow arching. Clint shrugged. 

“They shouldn't have started something they couldn’t finish.” Clint admitted.

It was true and another reason he was a bit of a social pariah, while he had done an accelerated placement, he'd still been apart of the 02’ class of Probie’s and he’d had to take classes with them. Most of the classes he had been able to test out of but when it came to things like team exorcises he’d had to join the rest of the class and at sixteen, he had been the youngest there. Being sixteen and testing out of almost ninety percent of the corse work, he had been an instant target. Of corse, a couple of the Probie’s had tried it on thinking he was to young to be a problem. The thing was, Clint had spent his first and only real ‘childhood’ years in the circus learning more than just how to fire a bow and bend his body into a knot. That coupled with the training he had gotten in his actual childhood years meant that the idiots hadn't realise just what they had asked for.  
What had started as trying to lock him in a locker had ended with Pratt, Gables and Montel quitting when Clint started a retaliatory prank war. 

“That's it?” Kikiri pouted. “That's all the dirt your gonna dish?” She demanded. 

“Ignore her, she's a girl at heart really, we tend to ignore it and it goes away.” Rollins tossed a coaster at Kikiri who caught it.

“Oh hardy har har.” She drawled out, nailing Rollins in the forehead with the coaster.

“They were just lucky I kept it none lethal.” Clint shrugged easily, rolling the cool glass between his hands. 

“I heard about that. Didn't you put a hornets nest in one of their rooms?” Manuel asked almost gleefully.

“Fire ants.” Clint corrected, feeling a grin tug at his lips. “If they couldn't take a little prank or two, they weren't cut out for this kinda work.” Clint pointed out.

“Kid’s got a point.” Rumlow mused. “I prolly would have just kicked their asses.” He added, amused.

“I wanted to scare them.” Clint snorted. “…And Coulson would have been pissed at me.” He grimaced.

“You mean he wasn't when you ran three Probie's out?” Rollins leant forward, interested.

“He was only slight pissed off about that. They would have washed out anyway.” Clint waved a hand. “They seemed to think they had more of a right to be there because they got people to pull strings. I earned my place being the best, not by riding someone else's coat tails.” Clint pointed out. 

“Gotta admit, still ain't many that can do what we do. That you can at your age is pretty damn amazing kid.” Kikiri reached out and ruffled Clint's hair.

Clint ducked down but couldn't escape it completely, though he found it much more pleasant than when Barney had done it. Barney had usually done it when Clint had asked for clarification or not known something everyone else seemed to know. 

“And that's why I’m the Amazing Hawkeye.” Clint batted her hand away, though he didn't really put much effort into it. 

 

By the fifth round, the team was starting to relax more, becoming a little louder, more jovial. The beer hadn't really done much for Clint and he knew it would take a lot more to get him tipsy. Still, he almost felt bad cleaning Rollins out at darts…almost. He had given fair warning after all. Darts lead to pool which lead to Clint shedding his jacket and facing off against Rumlow over the pool table, having cleaned out Manuel and Kikiri, plus another three guys who’d tried their luck.

“You sure you want to do this. I’m not joking here, I never miss.” Clint rolled his shoulders. 

“Shut up and play.” Rumlow ordered, somewhere behind him. 

Clint could feel eyes on his back as he bent to line up his shot but it wasn't an uncomfortable stare in the least. The more Rumlow had relaxed, the more Clint had noticed the older mans attention. If Clint happened to put a little more effort into his flirting, well who could blame him. The white hit the balls with a resounding crack, sending three solids straight for the pockets, one after another. 

“Not bad kid.” Rumlow admitted grudgingly. 

“It's all in the angles.” Clint shifted, leaning further over the table to line up his next shot. He looked at Rumlow over his shoulder as he took the shot, hearing the White ball bounce over the cluster of stripes to pot the blue but far more interested in the way Rumlow was checking out his ass. “You’ve gotta stop calling me kid.” He smirked, tongue curling slightly.

“You are a kid.” Rumlow shifted, pushing away from the wall. Clint was sure he wasn't imagining the disappointment in his tone either.

“Dude, I'm legal for everything but drinking.” Clint pointed out, purposefully brushing against Rumlow as he moved around the table. 

His nose flared as he passed, tongue flicking out to taste the air. Rumlow definitely was interested, he could taste it on the air. He might be young but he really wasn't a kid, hadn't ever been a kid. 

“I’m old enough to be your dad. Your half my age, that makes you a kid.” Rumlow muttered lowly, eyes darting over to where the rest of his team were halfway to being blind drunk. 

Clint barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, a bad habit he’d picked up from Barney and the other teens in the circus, he lined up his next shot, sinking the red instead. Age was just a number to Clint. Even when he was a child, he had never actually been one. Hell, his earliest memory would likely give Coulson nightmares. Now he had the freedom to sometimes act childish, he freely admitted to taking it but it was always there in the back of his mind. Who and what he was. He wouldn't be as good as he was at what he did if he was immature.  
The age thing had always been his biggest barrier with the world. Picking up people his own age was always hit and miss and honestly he usually found them too immature. Working in his line of work at his age was a huge risk. His clients always underestimating him at best and at worst…there was a reason Hawkeye had a reputation enough to draw SHIELD.

Leaning back against the pool table a moment, he gave the man his full attention. Aesthetically the man was pleasing, well built, handsome, tall. He was broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hips, his whole body sculpted by years of hard work. He had earned his body through sweat and hard work, not at a gym but at war. His arms bared by the T-shirt he wore showed ink and scars and no doubt his whole body was a map of his hard work. At first glance, he looked dark, rough but his baring spoke of discipline. He was a warrior, a soldier and it showed in how he moved, how he acted. His eyes were dark, lines just starting at the corners. It was the experience that attracted Clint, the strength.  
Rumlow was pretty yes, but what really drew Clint, more than the physical, was that Rumlow knew. Rumlow had seen and done more than most, he understood. He wasn't like the polished Agents at SHIELD who looked down on Clint as some sort of country bumpkin who had lucked out when getting caught, or even like he was some form of charity case. 

“Let me take a wild guess here.” Clint tilted his head, keeping his tone low enough it wouldn't carry far in the din of the bar. “It's not so much how I look, cuz we both know I'm hot.” Clint couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his lips. It wasn't bragging, it was a stone cold fact. He had been made to be attractive, encoded down to his DNA. “It's the number.” Clint cut Rumlow off when the older man opened his mouth to say something. “See, eighteen is legal sure but eighteen, eighteen means keggers and graduation, starting collage and starting to learn how to be an adult. Eighteen is stupid shit and stupid people.” Clint turned and lined up his next shot. “Eighteen is usually a kid who hasn't lived yet.”

Looking back up at Rumlow through his lashes, he lined up his next and last shot. He kept his eyes on Rumlow as he took the shot, hearing balls clack. He didn't need to look to know he'd won the game, only the stripes remaining on the green fabric. Rumlow didn't react to the shot but he was still listening.

“See, most eighteen year olds aren’t me. I started my job young.” Clint shrugged, straightening up, leaning on his cue. “You might be twice my age, but experience wise, I'm older than you. I've done shit that will make you run home to mommy.” Clint didn't exaggerate, letting the truth into his voice. Truthfully it was a bit much for a hook up but this wasn't just about that. If it happened, it happened, more than that, it was the point of the matter. He was just plain sick of people treating him like a child because of a number when he had seen and done more than them in half the time. Leaning forward, he put himself into Rumlow's space, letting some of the masks slip as he met Rumlow's eyes and held them. “I might be eighteen but I’ve never been a kid.” 

He held Rumlow's gaze a moment longer, watching as the older mans eyes widened a fraction, he let himself be scrutinised as Rumlow saw the truth in the statement and in his face. 

“Shit, your parents did a real number on you.” Rumlow muttered but he didn't seem disgusted, he understood. 

Grabbing his glass, Clint saluted him with it before draining it. It was true in a way. He didn't have traditional parents but he had those that had created him. In a way that was the same thing, he might not be biologically tied to them but the people who had created him, had given him life, the people that had raised him, moulded him into what he was, they were in a way his parents. They were his parents and they had done a number on him.  
There was no doubt in his mind that if he ever actually gave Psyc the truth, he would probably end up diagnosed with a whole book of issues. He was exactly as he had been made to be and that was probably somewhere between psychotic and sociopathic.  
Sometimes in the back of his mind he wondered if what he felt were actually emotions or how he interpreted his instincts and biological responses. Though wasn't that what human emotions were? Interpretations to biological responses, reactions to some form of outside stimuli. 

Setting his glass down, he pushed away the thoughts. He could spend hours, days and even weeks analysing himself, comparing himself to humans. The crux of the matter was, he wasn't human. On the surface he passed but if one looked too deep, they would see the patchwork of Frankensteins stitches holding him together proving he wasn't, it wasn't even that he could claim to be an imitation. He was exactly what he was supposed to be. A living weapon, a conscious, self aware, biological machine made to kill. 

Shaking off the introspective mood, Clint gathered their glasses and headed to the bar. It was only fair to pay for drinks, especially since he was using their money. The bar tender didn't even look twice when he ordered, just taking his order and his cash and setting out a fresh round of drinks on the bar. He heard Rumlow approach, catching the movement in his peripheral vision so he wasn't startled when Rumlow stepped up behind him, the larger mans arm brushing against him as he leant around Clint to help with drinks.  
Given the space at the bar, it couldn't be anything other than what it was and Clint couldn't help but lean back a fraction, scenting deeply. Rumlow smelled like gun oil and leather mixed with his preferred cologne, not a bad combination in the slightest.

“Your trouble Barton.” Rumlow murmured against his ear, lips brushing the shell before the heat of him disappeared along with half the glasses on the bar. 

“The best kind.” Clint muttered to himself, collecting the rest of the drinks and following in Rumlow's trail. 

 

Rollins was halfway under the table already, no doubt off the paint thinner he had in his hip flask, Kikiri was hogging a basket of buffalo wings, attention on Manuel trying to flirt with a woman two tables over.

“Is he winning?” Rumlow asked the woman, stealing a wing when she went for her beer.

“So far so good, no ones slapped him yet so he might be in luck.” Kikiri hummed.

“I told him not to listen to Rollins.” Rumlow slouched in his seat.

“I’ve got game.” Rollins muttered, shooting his boss a glare. 

“Honey, you've got lame.” Kikiri smirked. “I have no idea how the hell you managed to get a girlfriend, let alone a wife.” She added dryly.

“Shit, Beth's gonna kill me.” Rollins looked at his watch, eyes sliding away from the face as he listed to one side. Kikiri rolled her eyes.

“I’ll notify Fury.” Rumlow hid his grin behind his beer. 

“It's not funny, she's gonna skin me.” Rollins moaned into his beer.

“Drink up Romeo, I'll take you home.” Kikiri patted his arm. 

“I love you.” Rollins laid his head on her shoulder, almost sliding off and face planting in her lap.

“Man, you gotta stay away from that gut rot, you'll go blind.” Clint smirked, watching the man sway in his seat.

“I'll have you know, you only go blind if you play with your cock.” Rollins slurred, trying to wag a finger and nearly toppling onto the floor. 

Clint rolled his eyes, snorting softly as Kikiri hefted Rollins back into his seat before he could slide onto the floor as he started chugging his beer. Rumlow seemed completely unconcerned with his teammates state of inebriation, alluding to this being typical for the man. Kikiri downed about half her beer before getting to her feet, mostly fine as she hoisted Rollins up. 

“You should come train with us sometime kid.” Kikiri offered as she eased Rollins around the table. “Catch you later boss.” She waved.

“Make sure Beth doesn't kill him.” Rumlow ordered, waving his teammates off. 

Kikiri tossed him a salute over her shoulder as she dragged the heavier man out of the bar. 

“That happen often?” Clint asked, amused.

“More often than not.” Rumlow shrugged, observing him across the table. “What about you? Coulson gonna lynch me if I don't get his puppy home on time?” he asked, shifting in his seat.

“You do know I am a big boy and Coulson isn't my keeper don't you?” Clint asked in return, tilting his head.

The talk seemed to have put Rumlow at ease, some of the tension had gone out of him as he sat there. 

“Just want to be sure, that mans like a momma’ bear when it comes to you.” Rumlow shrugged. Clint couldn't help the frown. “Seriously, Coulson’s one of the best handlers in SHIELD if not the best and out of every agent he's ever been assigned, you’re the only one he's ever mothered.” Rumlow admitted.

“He mothers me?” Clint asked incredulously, feeling his eyebrows climb.

“He flat out refused Jamison’s request to have you on his mission last month.” Rumlow shrugged. Clint couldn't help the grimace, he'd worked with Jamison before, only to end up almost dead and left behind because Jamison couldn't handle taking advice from someone over twenty years younger than him. “Don't get me wrong, Coulson would go to bat for any of his agents but you, I don't know weather it's your age or not but he's in your corner.” Rumlow explained. 

To hear that warmed his little Frankenstein heart, truthfully, Phil was the closest thing to a father or a real big brother Clint had. He might consider Barney his brother, the same way he considered the unit he had grown with his siblings, but Coulson, he was pretty sure he loved the man. It wasn't romantic love, he didn't lust after Coulson, it was something softer, purer almost. He trusted Coulson, more than he’d ever trusted anyone else. Despite the man being sent after him and then shooting him, maybe even because of it.  
Clint had taken down most of the mans team and then he had managed to not only avoid one of Clint's arrows –It wasn't a miss, the arrow had flown true, the target had just moved- but had managed to shoot him while avoiding said arrow. It didn't stop there. The man had seen who and what he was and instead of running, he had given Clint an option. Coulson had given Clint a home. If Clint was loyal to anybody other than himself, it was Coulson. 

“Coulson is the closest thing to family I’ve got.” Clint admitted, hands fiddling with his glass. Rumlow tilted is head, his eyes almost softening. “I think he feels responsible for making sure I get a childhood or some shit. He thinks I have to learn about all the stuff I missed growing up. You know he made me watch Pokemon last time I was in medical. Then he brought me a game boy colour. I had to complete Red and Blue before he would let me have my bow back.” Clint couldn't help the eye roll, Rumlow's lips twitched. “It's not funny, do you know how long it took me to get a full set of Evie's evolutions?” Clint couldn't help the whine.

He had been so set on getting as many of the original one hundred and fifty that he had restarted the game multiple times just to trade Pokemon back and forth. That was days of his life wasted on tiny pixelated monsters. 

“Your joking me?” Rumlow snickered at him, gleefully amused at Clint's punishment. 

“I would not joke about this, Coulson has a sick sense of humour.” Clint shook his head. 

“Poor you.” Rumlow teased. “It must be so hard having to play games as a punishment.” 

Clint couldn't help the pout that crossed his lips, nudging Rumlow's calf under the table with his foot. He was pleasantly surprised when Rumlow hooked his leg around Clint's under the table, his leg a warm weight against Clint's. 

“It's not funny man, it's like some kinda psychological torture.” Clint pouted harder, enjoying Rumlow's low laugh.

“Oh I’m sure.” Rumlow drawled, pressing his leg firmer against Clint's, the heat seeping into Clint. “Having to play game boy must have been such a hardship.” He teased, his voice a pleasantly low draw that did things to Clint's libido.

“You have no idea.” Clint agreed, shifting in his seat, running his eye up and down Rumlow's body stretched out across from him. 

“Coulson's gonna kill me.” Rumlow muttered to himself. It had been pitched low, obviously not meant to be heard by Clint but he heard it easily anyway. “Want me to drop you off back at base?” He asked louder, finishing is drink off as he nodded towards Manuel.

Following the nod Clint saw Manuel disappearing towards the exit with the brunette he had been chatting up, giving Rumlow the thumbs up behind her back. Clint couldn't help the anticipation low in his gut, finishing off his own drink in two swallows.

“Honestly, I'd rather come back to your place.” Clint met Rumlow's eyes as he stood, watching as Rumlow checked him out. He stretched as he grabbed his jacket, showing off as Rumlow's eyes raked over him like an almost physical touch. “If you think you can handle me.” He challenged, slipping his arms into his jacket.

“Christ kid, you really are sure of yourself aren't you?” Rumlow stood almost slowly, easing out from behind the table as he slid his own jacket on, shifting enough his hand brushed along Clint's arm as he moved. “I think the question should be weather or not you can handle me.” He shot back as he brushed passed Clint. 

“Anytime, anywhere.” Clint followed, nose flaring as he drank in Rumlow's scent.

 

They were quiet as the headed out of the bar and into the night. The air was cool, streetlights casting shadows up and down the area, creating lots of areas to hide in. Clint inhaled deeply, letting the cool air fill his chest and clear smells still caught in his nose. The air smelled damp and almost fresh, which could only mean rain was on the way, underlaid by the usual smells of the city – exhaust fumes and rubber, food both freshly cooked and slowly rotting in dumpsters, and finally people, a cloying mix of sweat and hormones and artificial scents sprayed over the top- after a good rain was the only time the city seemed to smell clean.  
He caught Rumlow's eyes as the older man looked back at him, tilting his head. Clint could see the lingering notes of indecision creeping back into Rumlow's expression and moved, fisting his hand into the cool well warn leather of Rumlow's jacket and tugging the man down to catch his lips.  
Rumlow tasted of beer, with hints of the spice from the buffalo wing he'd eaten, not a bad combination. A large hand covered Clint's nape, thumb pressing into the muscles there as the older man hummed, tongue coming out to chase Clint's. His hand curled tighter into Rumlow's jacket and he slipped the other inside, fingers spanning over Rumlow's rib cage. He could feel the flutters of Rumlow's heartbeat, the heat coming off the older man and he pressed closer, chasing the lingering spice as his tongue mapped Rumlow's mouth. He hummed in appreciation as the hand on his neck kneaded gently, fingers pressing and exploring the muscles of his neck as another large hand curled around his hip which made his blood heat. He pressed even closer, abdomen brushing against the growing bulge in Rumlow's pants.  
Pressed up against the older man, Clint was almost dwarfed, nearly a full head shorter than the ex-SEAL. Clint knew he hadn't quite finished filling out yet, hadn't quite finished growing into his fully adult body, which meant Rumlow didn't just tower over him, he was broader too. It was thrilling, pressing up against all that muscle, even covered in denim and leather, being nearly cocooned in it.  
He nipped at Rumlow's lower lip when he pulled away to breath, hand curling around Rumlow side and resting against his back. He shifted when Rumlow pressed a knee between his thighs, groaning softly when a thick muscular thigh pressed against his half hard cock, hands gripping tighter. 

“Still want to come back to my place?” Rumlow's voice was husky, breathless and it curled along Clint's spine making him shudder.

“Hell yes.” He rolled his hips, pressing firmly against thigh between his legs and rubbing his stomach against the answering bulge. 

“C’mon.” Rumlow shifted, letting go of Clint's hip and tugging him along. “It's not far.”

Clint almost stumbled at the sudden loss of warm body against his, automatically correcting his balance and following along. Rumlow remained close, arms brushing and Clint could feel his body heat along side him, and he was pleased to find Rumlow looking at him when he checked. Anticipation was curling tightly in his gut, his fly begin to press almost uncomfortably against his cock as he walked. His eyes swept down to where the dark brown leather brushed Rumlow's hips and he wondered what they would feel like between his thighs.  
Beside him Rumlow let out a soft noise, snagging the arm of Clint's jacket. He went when Rumlow tugged him, letting himself be pressed back against cold brownstone brick, hooking his leg over Rumlow's hip as the larger man kissed him. Rumlow let out a needy noise in the back of his throat, his tongue curling filthily, making Clint shudder. Fisting his hands in the warming leather of Rumlow's jacket, he let the taller man tug his hips forward, the large hands cupped his ass almost gently for a moment before Rumlow was lifting him, his jacket scraping against the rough brick at his back. Clint wasted no time in wrapping his legs around Rumlow's hips, rocking his pelvis against Rumlow's, the mans large hands kneading his ass as he ground down against the thickening bulge, groaning at the heat and pressure against his cock, his fly rasping almost painfully against the delicate skin. Locking his ankles behind Rumlow's back, he rubbed against him like a cat, hands migrating from Rumlow's jacket to his hair, fingers threading through the short thick strands, grabbing handfuls, using it to control Rumlow's head and take control of the kiss. Rumlow almost growled, the noise vibrating his chest and Clint swallowed the sound greedily, shuddering when he was pinned hard against the brick, Rumlow grinding indecently against him. Clint couldn't help the soft needy noises he could hear himself making as he ground back, cock beginning to ache sweetly in the confines of his jeans.  
Tearing his mouth away, he looked down at Rumlow, taking in the almost drugged look on his face, the way his pupils had blown and his lips were damp and kiss swollen, panting softly as he shuddered, rocking his thick cock against Clint's own.

“Fuck.” He squirmed, pinned between the building and the muscular bulk between his thighs. 

Rumlow felt good pressed against him, parting his thighs wide around his hips, hot and hard against him and he smelled divine, musk and hormones, like a sex buffet.

“That's the idea sweetheart.” Rumlow smirked at him, panting softly as he caught his breath. 

The long slow grind was evil, forcing a sound almost like a mewl from Clint's throat, the hands on his ass squeezing and kneading. Clint tugged the hair in his hands firmly but not overly hard and was rewarded with a long delicious grind that made him shudder.

“Yeah, your not doing me in an alley _Sweetheart_.” Clint warned, catching Rumlow's bottom lip in his teeth and biting down just enough to sting, legs tightening at the noise Rumlow made. He soothed the bite with a lick. “Quicker we’re inside, the quicker your inside.” He added, pulling away when Rumlow tried to draw him back into a kiss.

“You’re a mouthy little fucker.” Rumlow groaned, pressing harder against him for a moment. He didn't seem particularly turned off by that either. “ C’mon.” He ordered.

 

The hands on his ass shifted and Clint let his legs drop, making sure to grind against Rumlow the whole way down. His jeans had passed uncomfortable, his fly digging in hard with every step as he let Rumlow lead him further down the street and into an apartment building at the end of the block.  
It was warmer inside, brighter and they remained separate just long enough for the elevator to open. Clint felt the hand on his jacket again and let Rumlow propel him into the elevator, twisting and catching Rumlow's wrist as he went, dragging Rumlow with him and pressing the larger man up agains the elevators wall near the control panel. Rumlow let out a soft noise of shock, shoulders pressed hard against the metal siding as Clint pressed against him but his eyes dilated further, licking his lower lip. Rumlow liked it a little rough.  
Twisting his fist into the dark cotton of Rumlow's t-shirt, Clint dragged him back down, sealing his lips over Rumlow's for another of those filthy kisses. Rumlow stooped a little, bending at the knees for support and Clint couldn't resist climbing him like a tree, bringing his covered cock back into contact with the matching bulge, groaning deep in his throat. His jeans were definitely becoming a major issue. 

Rumlow shifted beneath him a moment before he moved and Clint's arm flung out for balance when he was slammed back into the closed elevator doors, once again pinned under a wall of muscle. He could see Rumlow fumble for the floor buttons in his peripheral vision and slid his hands down, nudging the jacket aside to work on Rumlow's belt. Distantly he could hear the soft click of a button being repeatedly hit as he popped the button on Rumlow's jeans, the sound of the fly opening tooth by tooth loud even over the sound of their breathing. 

The noise Rumlow made when Clint finally got his hand into his boxers and around the thick erection they hid was obscene, making his own cock throb within the prison of his too tight jeans. He couldn't resist squeezing, feeling the heat and weight of the cock in his hand, already slick at the head, rewarded with another obscene groan of appreciation. He wasn't overly long or too thick, just slightly above average and certainly nothing to complain about.  
Clint couldn't help the moan he let out when Rumlow finally got to work on is jeans, moaning with relief for half a second before he had to grip Rumlow tighter, his head spinning as all his blood rushed south. The hand that covered his dick was hot, Clint could feel the weapons calluses against the sensitive flesh and damn if that didn't make his dick twitch, his hand spammed around Rumlow's cock and the older man groaned, hips thrusting forward. 

The elevator dinged as the box stopped with a lurch, knocking into each other. Clint couldn't help the needy groan he let out as they crashed together, no finesse, just friction that made his eyes want to roll into the back of his head and heat pool low in his gut. The elevator doors opening sent them scrambling, Rumlow catching the lip of the doors as Clint clung to him tightly rather than land on his ass. He wouldn't mind a couple of bruises but he wouldn't appreciate getting them from being dropped on the floor.

Rather than put him down, once Rumlow had his balance, he was quite happy to carry Clint, his large hands slipping inside Clint jeans to grip his ass, not that Clint minded much. Admiring the mans effort at multitasking, Clint wound an arm around his shoulders for balance, nosing along Rumlow's jaw towards the bare flesh of his neck, sinking his teeth in and laving at the damp flesh with his tongue, tasting the traces of hormones lacing Rumlow's sweat. It was heady, the mix of hormones like a catnip cocktail to his Frankenstein engineered tastebuds.

“Keys in my jacket.” Rumlow grunted, heading down the hallway.

Clint slipped his free hand into the rumpled leather, feeling for the keys even as he gripped Rumlow tighter. Every step was eyerollingly good Clint could feel the shudders running through Rumlow as each step brought their cocks together, beads of precum slicking the way. It took more time than Clint would have liked to liberate the keys from Rumlow's pocket, a task he should have been able to do in a split second without notice taking a great deal longer, but who could blame him when Rumlow held him at just the right hight to make every step a rolling thrust. He didn't complain when he was shoved up against a door, just fumbling the keys into the lock, the moment the lock clicked, Rumlow was stumbling inside the darkened apartment, kicking the door shut behind them as soon as the keys cleared the lock.  
Even in the dark he could see as clear as day, not that Clint was really concerned with checking out Rumlow's place at the moment. No he was far to invested with the hands tugging at his jacket. Clint released the near choke hold he had on the ex-SEAL, shucking the jacket and then his shirt before diving back in for another kiss. God damn could this man kiss, hot dirty and down right filthy kisses that made his cock throb. He scored his nails over Rumlow's t-shirt covered chest, catching nipples as he went, all the way to the hem. He gripped it tight and tugged, the material tearing beneath his hands.  
Clint flashed a pleased smirk as Rumlow jerked his head back, eyes wide as the material gave like tissue paper, baring the commanders broad chest to Clint's eagerly wandering hands, he caught a dusky bronze nipple and tugged, Rumlow letting out a rough noise, hips stuttering against his as the bigger man stumbled them into the hallway wall. Clint hissed as his hip grazed a side unit, sending something ceramic to crash and smash off the floor but Rumlow was already shrugging out of his jacket and ruined t-shirt, keeping Clint pinned with just his hips and then finally, he was pressing close. Acres of hot skin pressed against Clint and it was heady, his own hips rolling without conscious thought, grinding his throbbing, achingly hard cock against Rumlow’s and damn near purring.  
Rumlow was a man on a mission, eyes near black with how dilated his pupils were, his hands, bigger than Clint's own scored trails of near blistering heat against skin making him arch closer, the weapons callouses a rough counterpoint that sent little zings of want coiling to the pit of his belly. Clint could very easily develop a fetish for callouses because damn, they felt fucking fantastic. He couldn't help the little noise of loss when those hands stopped petting him, but then they were moving again, deeper into the apartment and Clint couldn't complain when each step rolled their cocks together, each roll of hips and drag of cock becoming slicker. He slid his hand down, using his thighs to get just enough space to wrap his hand around their cocks, his own hiss of pleasure drowned under Rumlow's curse as the bigger man stumbled. 

“Fuck, your like an octopus.” Rumlow caught them from slamming into a door frame and Clint could feel the fine tremors rippling through the strong body he was wrapped around, making his lips tug up.

“You want to complain or do you want to nail me sometime this week?” Clint demanded, gripping their cocks tighter, biting off the moan that built in his chest. The hand on his ass spammed.

As hot as all this was, and truly he could cum from just this, he was really looking forward to having that cock inside him. 

“Keep it up and I’ll find a better use for that mouth.” Rumlow growled out, darting in to bite at his lip and he groaned, flicking his tongue out to chase those lips. As good as Rumlow smelled right now, he would gladly take him up on that…later.

“Fuck first, blow later!” He ordered, pressing biting kisses against Rumlow's jaw, tongue darting out to rasp against the fresh stubble there. Rumlow groaned, deep in his chest but it got him moving. 

It wasn't too much further and then Rumlow's hands disappeared a fraction of a second before he was being lowered onto a bed. He didn't have time to mourn the loss of those callouses because those big hands that through off heat like branding irons were tugging at his jeans and thank which ever deity that looked out for freaks like him. 

“Lube…” Rumlow stilled, Clint's jeans halfway down his thighs as the weight suddenly vanished. “Get naked!” Rumlow ordered.

The complaint died on his lips as the larger man near dove for the bedside table, leaving him laying on the bed with his boots still on and his jeans rucked around his thighs like some kind of really cheesy porno, but this was a plan he could get behind. 

“Sir yes Sir!” He smirked, already shimmying his jeans down as he toed off his boots. Sometimes he really loved being flexible. 

Hitching a little further up the bed, Clint couldn't resist wrapping a hand around his aching cock, squeezing as Rumlow dropped a bottle and a strip of condoms on to the bed beside him. He watched appreciatively as Rumlow finished shedding his cloths, bearing muscular thighs, his thick cock jutting proudly from its nest of dark curls, glistening at the head and Clint licked his lips. He could definitely get behind keeping his mouth busy.  
He spread his legs as Rumlow knelt on the bed, drawing his knees up as he rose up on one elbow, eyes raking Rumlow head to foot as the older man loomed closer only to stall inches from touching him. Clint bit back the groan as he saw the flicker of expression on Rumlow's face.

“Ask me if I’m sure and I'll have to knee you in the balls.” He groused, letting go of his cock to wrap his hand around a corded, muscular bicep and urging the ex-SEAL closer. 

Rumlow let out a snort of amusement but the line of tension that had been mounting in him dissipated and then Clint had those hands on him, callouses scraping against the delicate, sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

“You’re a little shit Barton.” Rumlow's voice was amused, pitched low as he pressed a biting kiss against Clint's inner thigh. 

Clint cursed, cock twitching hard against his abdomen leaving damp smears, shifting his legs wider to give the commander more access. The flicker of a hot, wet tongue against the sting of the bite had his hips lifting, breathless as he tugged Rumlow closer. He couldn’t help the impatience because really, he might not be a kid but technically he was a horny teenager.

“C’mon, what are you waiting for, a written invitation?” He snarked, bracing his arm more firmly against the bed for leverage. 

Rumlow let out a low, rough chuckle as he shifted, reaching out for the lube, hot puffs of air ghosting against the sensitive flesh of Clint's cock, making the muscles in his thighs twitch in anticipation. The snick of the cap seemed overly loud, the hand on his thigh disappearing a moment and then Rumlow was pressing hot, wet bites against his hip, not enough to hurt but enough to sting, laving the flesh with his tongue hitting the right mix of pain and pleasure to keep him distracted from focusing too much on the blunt, slick finger that slid between his cheeks. Kneading the muscles under his hand, Clint dropped back on to the bed to arch his hips, giving Rumlow more room to work and he had to fight the urge to squeeze the flesh in his hand when Rumlow's tongue trailed a searing path from his hip over his abdomen towards his cock. He groaned in frustration when Rumlow bypassed is cock all together, to instead dip his tongue into Clint's belly button but he was rewarded when the questing finger finally pressed home. It was gentle, Rumlow trying to ease him into it, give him plenty of time to adjust, likely operating under the assumption that Clint wouldn't be experienced because of his age. Clint wasn't having any of it.  
Shifting, he couldn’t help the amusement at Rumlow's expression when he rocked back onto the gentle finger, not stopping until it was knuckle deep, cocking his eyebrow, he shot the older man a challenging look. 

“C’mon cowboy, this ain't my first rodeo.” He pointed out, bracing his feet on the mattress. 

He groaned when Rumlow dipped his head to suck on the skin of his inner thigh, the groan turning to a moan when Rumlow added another finger. The slight burn from the stretch of two fingers was just what he'd been needing, making him suck in a sharp breath, letting it out with a moan as Rumlow started to work him open.

“Your trouble Barton.” Rumlow growled out against the flesh of his thigh.

The retort on his lips died when those fingers crooked, hitting his prostate and sending a bolt of sharp white hot pleasure straight to his balls. His hips arched in a wordless plea for more and he was treated to an appreciative rumble muffled against the inside of his thigh. Sometimes his patchwork DNA could be a curse, right now it was a blessing. All the extra nerve receptors he had that helped with threat detection and a multitude of useful instinctive traits let him feel every thing, including the rasp of those weapons callus inside him, stroking over his prostate with every glide of those talented deadly fingers stretching him open. It took him a few moments before he trusted himself to speak.

“The best kind.” He repeated his earlier statement, his voice coming out far more breathy than he liked. 

Rumlow led out a low noise of his own as he added another finger and Clint's eyes almost rolled in his head, hips rolling trying to get those fingers deeper. It was almost a relief when Rumlow started to work his way up Clint't body, bringing more of the bigger man in reach of his hands. His fingers traced dark ink on the thick biceps, nails rasping over a scar on Rumlow's right shoulder blade. This was what he liked about hooking up with people older that himself, the men and women he tended to favour weren't perfect. He wasn't put off by marks and scars, just the opposite, and marks like these told a story. Maybe Clint would get to read that story with his finger tips later.  
His attention shifted to Rumlow's lips as his head neared and Clint couldn't resist catching them, scoring his nails down Rumlow's spine. He could feel Rumlow's cock leave wet smears against his thigh, feel the heat coming off it. Each touch, each sensation just added to what he was already feeling and his impatience grew with the need.  
Shifting his grip, he rolled them in one flawless move, thoroughly enjoying Rumlow surprised noise as when he ended flat on his back. Rumlow let out an impressed noise, rutting up against Clint's thighs, his fingers twisting deeper, drawing a throaty moan from Clint. 

“Admit it, you love getting pushed around.” Snagging the strip of rubbers from the bedspread, Clint ripped one open. “You like it a bit rough.” He added.

Rumlow let out a noise, almost like a growl, wrapping one hand around Clint's thigh as he deftly slid the rubber on Rumlow, the fingers inside him twitched and Clint had to bit his lip a moment.

“Don't think I'm the only one Darlin’.” Rumlow’s hand tightened on his thigh as he grabbed the lube, slicking up Rumlow's cock with a quick flick of his wrist, earning a hiss. 

Rumlow rose up, lips fastening onto Clint's throat, teeth digging in just shy of painful while those long deadly fingers slid free and Clint whimpered, his face flushing at the needy sound. Rumlow's chuckle was down right evil, muffled into the flesh of Clint's throat but it was almost worth it when Rumlow smacked his hand away, taking himself in his lube slick fingers and holding himself steady.  
Bracing his hands on Rumlow's shoulders, he lowered himself down, breath catching as the blunt head of Rumlow's cock breached him. He'd had just enough prep that it wasn't painful but not enough to prevent the delectable feel of being stretched. Beneath him, Rumlow shuddered head to toe, panting against the fresh mark on Clint's throat while he inched himself down until he was fully seated in Rumlow's lap.  
Rumlow's hands clenched on his thighs, gripping tight enough to bruise while holding him still, panting harshly against his throat. His own hands scrabbled for Rumlow's shoulders, squeezing and kneading the muscles under his hands while he sucked in air, his cock throbbing hard where it was trapped between them. After what seemed like an eternity but was only a few moments, Rumlow loosened his grip and Clint could move. He rocked experimentally in Rumlow's lap, groaning when Rumlow's dick glanced over his prostate, little sparks dancing behind his eyes.  
Widening his knees for better leverage, Clint rose up, slow and smooth until just the head of Rumlow's cock remained, drinking in the noises Rumlow made and then he was sinking back down, hips rolling, moaning throatily when Rumlow's thick cock rocked over his prostate. 

“Christ you’re a fuckin’ tease Barton!” Rumlow growled out, his big hands sliding up Clint's thighs to his ass and Clint couldn't help the breathy laugh. “Move!” 

Rumlow's large hands squeezed, urging Clint to move faster. Dropping his head onto Rumlow's shoulder, Clint let the hands guide his movements, panting against Rumlow's feverish skin as he lost himself in the feel of the older man. It was hot and slick, the otherwise silent room filled with the sounds of them, their moans echoing in the silent apartment, Clint was drowning in it all, Rumlow's scent – thick with arousal- filling his nose, the taste of him, salty and thick with hormones, the feel of him. He could feel Rumlow's pulse, pounding from exertion and arousal, thumbing from each put of contact, echoing beneath his fingertips, against his cheek, where Rumlow’s artery fluttered against his skin and deep inside him from where they were joined. So much sensory input that it was making his head spin. 

He bit down on the flesh beneath his lips when a slick hand wrapped around his aching cock, hands clenching tight as his hips stuttered. It snuck up on him before barrelling him over with all the subtlety of a freight train, vision whiting out as he came, spilling over Rumlow's fist and coating both their stomachs.  
Rumlow gave him a moment, a bare handful of heartbeats before he was rolling them over, hands gripping Clint's thighs. A few thrusts more and Rumlow was coming with a shout, hips twitching as he tried to get himself deeper before collapsing on Clint, breathless. 

 

He lay there boneless under Rumlow's bulk, legs splayed obscenely as he fought to catch his breath, Rumlow just as boneless, tremors still rippling through his muscles. He felt good, loose in a way that only came from a really good orgasm. He couldn't help the hiss as Rumlow slowly withdrew before he rolled heavily to the side. They lay there for a long moment side by side, covered in cooling cum and sweat.

“I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.” Clint couldn't help himself, the quip rolling off his tongue without thought. 

Beside him, Rumlow shot him an almost horrified look, letting out a distressed sound. 

“I hate you so much right now.” He groaned. 

Clint just grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hit post without preview by accident and since I'm still figuring out how to format you'll have to bare with me. On a side not, if anyone knows how to put a freaking tab space in AO3's HTML I would much appreciate a heads up. I've tried everything I could think of and everything I've looked up so far to no joy. Could be trying to edit after a night shift is a bad idea.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who want spoilers, Clint here is Omnisexual and by that I mean he classes himself as a different species, so while he's not picky about what plumbing a person has hes also not picky about their species. (I'll jump over any compalints or worries and say, no it's not going to be that type of story. Think of it like Star Trek and the interspecies marriages, get your minds out of the gutter and stop watching bad porn)
> 
> FOR WARNINGS: The second half of this instalment of my 692 series will contain slash, I wasn't aiming to ship anyone this soon but the characters wouldn't have it. If that offends you, don't read it. It's another reason I have segmented the instalment. It's essentially porn, which means I either need to repress the fact my mum bata'd it or accept that she's essentially my BFF and knows I write porn. Gah.


End file.
